


Dangers of Domesticity

by embroiderama



Category: White Collar
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:50:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal has an accident at home, and Peter and El get him help despite some roadblocks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangers of Domesticity

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [](http://angelita26.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelita26**](http://angelita26.livejournal.com/)'s [prompt](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/133333.html?thread=1050581#t1050581) at the [](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/)**whitecollarhc** Comfest 2013. It doesn't completely match the prompt, but I hope it's close enough.

Neal thought, in the long moment of losing his balance and falling from the kitchen island down to the floor, that this kind of thing really wasn't supposed to happen to him. He had scaled buildings and made his way along precariously narrow catwalks without so much as slipping, and now he'd lost his footing while helping to install a new pot rack from Crate & Barrel. The humiliation of it seemed like sufficient punishment for his clumsiness--right up until he landed and the impact came with a crack in his wrist that sent a hot flash of pain all the way up to his shoulder.

When his vision cleared, Neal looked up to see Peter staring down at him and said the only thing he could think of: "Ow." He started to use his uninjured arm to push himself up from his haphazard, curled-up position on the floor, but then Peter was there crouched next to him, holding him down.

"No, no, stay put, Neal. you might be hurt worse than you think." Peter kept one hand on Neal's shoulder and pulled out his phone.

"I think I just sprained my wrist." Neal pulled his hand closer to his chest, but he really wanted to sit up and take the pressure off of it.

"You don't know that." Peter's face was very grave. "I'm calling an ambulance."

"An ambulance!" El's voice surprised them both, and Peter turned around to look at her, giving Neal a chance to wriggle out of Peter's grip. "Oh my god, what happened? Did you hit your head?"

"Just my arm." Neal sat up, leaning against the side of the island and ignored Peter's concerned glare. "My wrist broke my fall. I just need an ace bandage or something."

Peter frowned and looked down at his phone. "You could be hurt worse. You don't know. I don't like this."

"Hon, relax." She put her hand on Peter's arm, and Neal could see Peter visibly relax just a fraction. "Don't call anybody yet." She knelt down next to Neal, held her palm against the side of his face, warm where he was feeling chilled, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Tell me what happened."

"I lost my footing and fell, but it's just my wrist. I'm fine."

El pet her hand down over his uninjured arm and frowned. "Well, I don't think you're exactly fine considering the way your arm is swelling up, but I think we can skip the ambulance and just drive to the emergency room."

"Hon, we should--"

"El, I don't need--"

"We're driving to the hospital. Now, hon, stop arguing and help Neal up."

"I don't need help," Neal said, feeling like the loss of dignity over a simple fall was completely out of proportion. He started to push himself to his feet then went to steady himself with the wrong arm and pain shot through it, echoing through his whole body. "Ouch," he said, feeling stupid.

"Okay, come on Mr. Handyman." Peter put his arm around Neal's back, and then Neal was standing, his head spinning just a little from what he distantly knew was shock. Peter guided him out the door and down the steps, and by the time they were at the car El came running down to meet them.

"Okay, Satchmo will be fine until we get back. And I brought you an ice pack, Neal."

Neal sank down into the back seat, holding his arm close to his chest, and watched as El handed the ice pack to Peter then plucked the car keys from his hand.

"What are you doing?"

"People who want to call ambulances don't get to drive to the hospital." El's voice was softer then. "Sit in the back with Neal. Take care of him like you want to."

 _I don't need anybody taking care of me,_ Neal thought, but he didn't say anything. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the seat. He felt Peter slide in next to him then winced as the doors closed with a bang and the car started. The street was in less-than-great condition ever since the last winter's snows, but Neal had never paid much attention to the rough spots and potholes. Now, though, he could tell that El was doing her best to make the ride smooth, her little in-drawn breaths at each bump making it clear, but every jolt shook through the layer of shock that had been separating Neal from the pain. He kept his eyes closed and breathed in and out through his nose at a measured pace.

Peter was running his hand up and down Neal's thigh in rhythm with Neal's breaths, and he tried to focus on that, the comforting weight of Peter's hand. When the pain was under control, Neal opened his eyes and looked over at Peter, who was still so gravely concerned. "Thank you. It hurts, but I'm okay, really."

Peter didn't argue and he didn't agree. He held out the ice pack wrapped in a dish towel and reached across Neal to settle it over his wrist and forearm. "Let's see if this helps," he said, his breath warm on Neal's neck. "I don't like to see the people I love in pain."

Neal gave Peter a tense smile then closed his eyes again. The hospital was close, just over a mile away, and Neal told himself that in not very long he'd be just a little bit high and not feeling so much pain. Not that he looked forward to the drugs--the loss of control was scary in its own way--but like this, with Peter and Elizabeth, he knew he'd be okay. Peter, at least, had certainly seen him in worse condition and kept him safe long before their relationship had become so much deeper, so much more personal.

"Oh, no," El groaned from the front seat, and Neal thought that he just really didn't want to know.

"What the hell?" Peter said, and Neal forced himself to open his eyes. What he saw wasn't encouraging: the street filled with cars at a standstill, flashing lights of fire engines and police cars up ahead. Peter pulled his hand away to mess with his phone, and a minute later he cursed again under his breath.

"Hon? What's going on?"

"There's a water main break and now a suspected gas leak up ahead. The cops are working out a detour but we might be stuck here a while." Peter sighed with frustration. "Damn it. And we're blocked in all around. I'm going to go walk up there and talk to them, see if there's something they can do for us."

"No," Neal said. The idea of having Peter run around in the middle of a traffic jam trying to get Neal pushed through like a trauma case or a woman in labor made Neal feel sick. "I'm not bleeding or unconscious. It hurts but I'm okay. I don't need you trying to get me pulled out of here in an ambulance when we went to all this trouble to avoid it in the first place." Neal did his best to smile and hoped his expression didn't look too strained.

"Do you think there's any way you can drive out of here, El?"

"Short of turning this into monster trucks? No. And we're not going anywhere so I'm putting this thing in park." El leaned down to the floor on the passenger side and then dug around in her purse. "Here, hon." She passed a half-empty bottle of water and a small plastic container back to Peter.

"You think it's okay?" Peter shook the container, and Neal heard pills clicking against each other.

"I don't think that a couple of Advil and a sip of water are going to cause any problems. We'll tell them when Neal checks in." El turned around and looked between the seats then reached through to put a hand on Neal's knee. "That's if you want to take something? I don't know how much it'll help."

"I'll take it." Neal put the two pills in his mouth and swallowed them with a mouthful of tepid, stale water. His stomach churned, and he closed his eyes, holding himself still until the worst of it passed. He opened his eyes to see Peter and El watching him with concerned eyes, and he thought that maybe it was better when he was on his own, better not to be making other people worry about him. Then Peter unbuckled his seatbelt and moved closer to rub his hand over Neal's back, and Neal knew that it was worth it, letting people care about him. Letting people in.

For a while, nothing changed. The car stayed in one place, Peter kept his hand on Neal's back, Neal kept his eyes closed and tried to make the pain be something outside of himself, something he could ignore. But, as always, gradual changes edged their way in. The ice pack was no longer cool enough to make a difference; the car was moving forward in stops and starts that were unavoidably jerky; the distance Neal had made between himself and the pain slowly collapsed until it was all overwhelming. Nauseated from the unsteady motion of the car and the pain radiating out from his arm, Neal bent forward and breathed in sharp inhales and panting exhales.

Under the sound of his breathing, Neal heard Peter and El saying his name then heard them talking to each other. He felt something being wrapped around his body and resisted as Peter tried to move his arm, but Peter shushed him like he was a child and moved it anyway. Neal wanted to hate him for that but then Peter moved away and very, very slowly tugged Neal down until he was curled up on his uninjured side, his head on Peter's thigh, his wrist supported against his body so that he didn't have to hold it anymore. Then Peter's fingers were in Neal's hair, pushing his damp bangs back from his forehead, massaging lightly at the nape of his neck, and Neal felt the tension start to seep out of his body.

As Neal relaxed into Peter's touch he felt his stomach unclench, most of the sick feeling fading away, and even the pain in his arm faded from a blazing fire to glowing coals. Neal wasn't sure how much time passed but eventually he felt the car moving in longer stretches, more like normal city traffic, and soon after that Peter was saying his name and stroking a line back and forth over his cheek.

"Neal? Neal? Sweetheart?"

Neal opened his eyes and saw El looking at him from between the seats again. "We're here. You need to let Peter help you out of the car, okay?"

"Yeah," Neal said, his voice rougher than he had expected. He nodded and sat up then let Peter guide him in getting out of the car without moving around too much. Neal winced as moving around jarred his arm, but it wasn't unbearable. When he looked, he realized that Peter was only wearing a t-shirt, his button-down from earlier missing. It seemed like a mystery until he looked down at the improvised sling holding his arm to his body.

"You actually gave me the shirt off of your back?"

Peter looked somehow fond and embarrassed at once. "I do plan on recovering it later."

"Get inside!" El said, shooing at them from the driver's seat. "I'll meet you after I park the car."

"Yes, honey," Peter said.

With Peter's hand on his back, Neal walked into the ER and dropped into a seat, expecting to have a long wait on top of the extended drive, since he wasn't in any kind of immediately life-threatening condition. He leaned back in the plastic seat as much as he could then groaned to himself as he heard the distinct sound of Peter Burke, FBI Agent, giving orders to somebody who clearly didn't want to take them. Neal would have done the same thing, in his own way, if Peter or El were hurt, but Peter didn't have the knack for making people _want_ to bend to his will. Whoever was working behind that desk, Neal made a mental note to send them flowers.

The upside to Peter making his voice and his badge into a battering ram was that before El even made her way in from the parking garage, a man in scrubs pushing a wheelchair came to collect Neal and take him back to the treatment area. Peter stuck to them like glue, and Neal couldn't find it in himself to argue. A nurse came to take Neal's information and his vitals, then left with the promise of a doctor coming to see Neal soon.

When El arrived inside Neal's curtained-off cubicle, Peter left, no doubt to harass somebody else. "So," El said, after kissing his cheek and taking his uninjured hand in hers, "tell me why the nurses glared at me when I told them who I was here to see."

"That would be Peter and his smooth methods of persuasion."

She laughed quietly and shook her head. "That's Peter. He doesn't deal well with not being able to help the people he loves."

"I'll send them flowers to make up for it."

"Don't you worry about it. They'll love us by the time you're discharged."

Neal was about to ask what her plan was when Peter returned with a very young-looking doctor behind him.

"Mr. Caffrey, I'm sorry you've had to wait," he said, looking at the chart in his hands.

"It's okay," Neal said. "I wouldn't mind some drugs though."

"I need to examine your arm, and then we'll get you some pain relief and send you to radiology. Does that sound okay?"

Neal nodded, and he played along as the doctor asked him questions about how he'd hurt himself. The examination was bad as the process of taking his arm out of the shirt-sling and moving it around woke up the vicious pain that had faded while Neal was still and relaxed. But then there was a pain shot and everything went very soft very quickly. Neal blinked the tears out of his eyes and smiled at Peter and El as he was helped into a wheelchair and taken off to get x-rays.

Neal was just coherent enough to understand that he had a simple fracture and that he wouldn't need any surgical intervention to put the bones back in place, which sounded like a nice thing. They offered him a range of colors for his cast and he went with white, because classics never go out of fashion. By the time they rolled him out into the waiting room with a prescription for painkillers and a referral to an orthopedist, El was casually chatting with one of the nurses and Peter was nowhere to be seen.

"What's goin' on?" Neal asked, vaguely amused at the little bit of slurring in his voice.

"Peter's bringing the car around, and I brought cupcakes." El pointed at two remarkably large bakery boxes sitting on the counter. "Somehow, I think we're forgiven for the scene earlier."

"That's good." Neal thought about asking for a cupcake but then he thought that might not go well with the drugs in his system. And he could probably get El to bring him some in a day or two. Lemon maybe. Or raspberry.

"Lemon what?" El asked, and Neal just gave her his best groggy, mysterious smile.

Peter drove them home, a much quicker trip than the drive there, and Neal fell asleep for a while, coasting on the effects of the pain shot. When he woke up, El brought him dinner--a bowl of lemon pudding made from scratch. Neal let Peter arrange him in the bed like a broken doll, his casted arm on the outside where it wouldn't get bumped, propped up on pillows to keep it above his heart. He drifted off to the gentle scratch of El's fingernails as she carded her fingers through his hair. He knew it was going to be a long several weeks while his arm healed but right then he didn't particularly care.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has timestamps [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2166360/chapters/4737327) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2166360/chapters/4737333).


End file.
